Beginnings: Artur van Drachendorf
by vassalofbahamut
Summary: A young ruler comes to terms with his vows to his Faith, his duty to his people, and the dark thoughts that lurk in all men's souls. Rated Teen for violence and graphic imagery, and may escalate to M in future.


Chapter 1: Dawn

The incessant cackle of the castle crows woke Artur from his fey, uncomfortable slumber. The droning caws grew louder and louder still, grating upon the young man's ears; but he made no effort to shut the door or hurl something at the petulant avians tormenting him. He had slept far too awkwardly and his joints were too sore from the chilly damp, to muster up any effort at moving. With a groan and a curse falling all too easily from his lips, Duke Artur van Drachendorf sat up, his rumpled sheets falling from his shoulders, gathering around his waist. He squinted his eyes, as if to ward off the bright rays of the sun that would soon pour into his chamber from the windows. A second passed, then two. No blinding ray of light from Pelor's Eye. Artur sighed and blinked his groggy eyes open as he remembered. The sun never shone in Sturmsberg, perhaps never in all of Drachengard. The familiar iron-grey of the overcast sky greeted him, allowing the young duke's piercing blue eyes to adjust readily to the morning light. Or, at least he thought it was morning. With overcast days, one could never tell...

The cool damp wind of the coast whistled through the open windows, lashing against the exposed skin of his lean, muscular torso. He ignored the cold and clambered up, stretching, wincing at the aching throb of his shoulders and elbows from the wet air. Artur strode through the window to the balcony, breathing deeply, the Coastland breeze clearing away the fog of sleep from his mind. A crow hopped closer to its master, croaking a harsh greeting to the young noble. Artur glanced at the impertinent bird, exasperation briefly crossing his features. This crow, Edgar by name, was by far the smartest of the lot...and Artur could at times swear that the crow spoke the common speech now and again... He shooed the overbearing avian away, focusing his attention to the sight below.

Sturmsberg was a large city, fortuitously located on a crossroads and a natural harbor. Trade came easily to The City On The Mountain as it did to all other Tecterian cities, and the reserves and public granaries were always meticulously stocked and maintained, as were the pipes and sewers that kept the city clear of waste and squalor. Despite the busy commerical air of the marketplace the angular walls and reinforced turrets, banding the city with a belt of black basalt, belied its true purpose: Sturmsberg was a fortress, a kind of super-castle that could accomodate refugees from a hundred miles in all directions and control that same radius of land with merely a quarter of its garrison. As impressive as the city's defenses were, the beating heart of the city, the Castle de St. Rolande, was widely held to be impregnable. It was in this monolith of hundred-foot walls and taller turrets, with its great looming gothic keep and cathedral, that the Dukes of Drachengard, that Artur, made their home. Out along the rocky pebble-strewn coast, Artur could see massive shapes looming through the thick roiling mist. Those were the castles of his vassal-lords, gargantuan citadels as ancient as the bedrock they were built on and the gravel surrounding them. These fortresses stood eternal watch over the coast, never sleeping, constantly warding off attacks from the strange and savage waters of the north...of the Thrymland.

The striking of the bells in Sturmsberg's clock tower, coupled with the solemn chanting of terces from the Cathedral of Bahamut and the waking sounds of the market district told the young duke that it was indeed the ninth hour of morning, and he had woken up with the city. It was not as apparent so early in the day, but one felt a heavy sort of desperation, an almost predestined evanescence to even this great and ancient fortress. The streets, though clean, had a temporary air as one walked them. Even the people of the duchy, honest and industrious as they were, had a grim, hard-bitten edge, as if they were all lean pioneers, the first hardy souls to colonize this wild land. Even though these people had lived here for centuries, nothing felt permament-everything felt fleeting, almost doomed.

Edgar cawed again, breaking Artur from his reverie. Sighing in desperation, he swept back inside. Taking a cold strip of bacon from last night's meal on the nightstand, Artur flung the meat at Edgar. "There, you little wretch. You'd have gotten two, but for your incessant complaints." The crow cawed an indignant sort of thanks and attacked the rasher, fending off his brethren as they crowded around for a peck of his prize. Artur shut the window, leaving the crows to their war, and entered the lavatory. He twisted the faucet in the gleaming black marble tub, large enough to fit twelve, and brushed his teeth in the basin while the tub slowly filled with steaming water warmed by the hotsprings under the castle. He bathed then, letting the hot water and soap relax the damp-stiffened joints and muscles of his back. He loved baths- it was the one time during the day where he didn't have to strut around in foppish imported silks and satins, where he could finally let the constant flurry of his mind slow down for a time, allowing him to fully feel his emotions again, something he constantly resisted every other second beyond the bath.

Emotions and thoughts were like raindrops; hold them back more and more and they build up, soon becoming great enough to tear the tarp and soak all the hapless souls seeking shelter. They sprang up now, faster and more intense... His land, his people and they danger they faced every year.. His father... his mother and sister... his brother. Under the hot water Artur's hands clenched into fists, his teeth grinding as his eyes poured forth a silver stream of tears that dropped into the water, disappearing like rainfall in the iron sea. He shuddered, breaths slipping into sobs when a voice, throaty and high, shot through his thoughts like a star falling into a river flood.

"Y-Your Grace?" It was Maea, the daughter of that new merchant from Porta Rialto. Tall and shapely, with luminous green eyes, waist-length raven tresses and the sun-kissed dusky skin of a southerner, she had accompanied her father north to begin her apprenticeship as a merchant. And had most willingly enjoyed the young Duke's attentions during her stay. Hearing her voice, Artur snapped his head to the side, eyes peering, glaring out the corners to stare at the woman.

"What is it?" As soon as he spoke, he regretted it. His query came out sharp and harsh, irritated at this disturbance during his most private hour. Artur felt his cheeks flush, just imagining the hurt and confused expression on Maea's lovely gaze. His felt his glare lighten and his voice smoothed out to a soft murmur. "Did you sleep well?"

Maea nodded, "I-I did, Your Grace. I...I was just wondering where His Grace h-had gone to..." She walk around into Artur's line of sight, draped in a crimson silk slip clasped with one hand. And wearing nothing else.

Artur grunted, noting every sheer curve of her form, the honest concern in her eyes and heart-shaped face. He settled back against the heated black stone, the levees of his mind now drawn up around the flood. He clouded his mind with constant thoughts of Maea's body, the passion of the previous night, the chill outside, anything to re-bury what he had unleashed moments ago. His voice was back to its cold, frosty tenor, "I'm only washing up. I'm just sore from leaving the window open."

Maea slipped behind him again, and her nimble, gentle fingers started to knead into Artur's rakish, toned shoulders, easing away what would have taken a thousand scalding baths to do. Artur almost sighed and tipped his head back, but he felt himself tense up, hard as iron, before he could fully indulge in the beauty's ministrations. He could never relax in another's presence, never let his guard down. He shrugged off her hands, almost throwing them off. Inwardly cursing his roughness again, he clasped her hand in his and awkwardly kissed it for reassurance. Quickly washing and rinsing his hair, he heaved himself out of the bath, girding a towel about his waist.

He stared at himself in the mirror: His short jagged hair, the color of dusty gold, hung in damp spikes; bangs fell wetly against his eyes. All over his wiry, toned frame were dozens of scars criss-crossing one another: he insisted on practicing with sharpened weapons during training, and his body bore silent witness to years of painful trial and error. His piercing sky blue eyes glared forth from a youthful, handsome face marred only by the perpetual furrow of his brow. It was said that Artur van Drachendorf was always a solemn child, but since his accession to the dukedom, he had grown even more humorless and icy.

Drying himself off, he drained the bath and donned a black undershirt and a reinforced linen outer tunic the color of midnight blue, with sleeves of steel chainmail: this was an arming tunic, over which armor could quickly be fastened. Over his undershorts he pulled on a pair of black velvet trousers, fresh from the castle laundry. Fastening his silver-inlaid leather belt, he strode from the lavatory to the bedroom, followed by Maea, still wearing nothing but the crimson slip. After lacing his boots, the duke looked up to see Maea, holding out his cloak. It was stormy gray, of heavy wool with a rim of purest white wolf's fur. Artur stood still as the merchant's daughter draped the heavy garment over his shoulders, gently smoothing out the wrinkles and pinning it on his left collar with a gold pin forged in the shape of an sinuous, coiled dragon, the sigil of House Drachendorf. Without another word Artur strode away and nearly crossed the doorway when Maea's voice called out. "Your Grace? Should...should I...?"

Artur considered. His dalliances were common knowledge through the castle; being a duke of nineteen years old, certain indiscretions were rather tolerated, even somewhat encouraged, especially by his rowdier vassals. Not by the clerics in the Cathedral of course, but a duke's station did have its conveniences. Still, it would (if anything) give the pages a nasty shock to find a nude young woman in bed while on their way to clean the duke's room. Artur paused, mentally willing himself to keep the frost from his voice as he addressed her. "Use my lavatory to bathe and dress," he said, "the page can show you back to your father."

Maea spoke again. "Shall I... Shall I see you again tonight, Your Grace?" Her face flushed as she asked, embarrassed at her pretentious question.

The young man paused. "Perhaps. I will send for you tonight, if I can. We... can walk the market if you'd like." With that, he strode out of his chamber, making his way to the Great Hall.

The Great Hall of St. Rolande was already a flurry of activity. The hall was enormous, with a vaulted ceiling that soared to high heaven, stained glass windows casting the morning in a deep blue tint. Serving maids and page boys had already set the trestle tables and stoked the fires and braziers that warded away the drafts. Seated upon the tables were dozens, if not hundreds of knights and various vassal lords, all fully armed and armored as per northern tradition. The dark basalt floor -bereft of rugs or carpets- gleamed from its polishing, and the air was heavy with the scent of smoked bacon, sizzling spiced ham, and sweet dark oatbread. In most Great Halls, the bare stone walls would have been draped in tapestries, paintings, and various sundry decorations that would have given off the feel of home. On the walls of St. Rolande, the walls from floor to ceiling was covered with steel weapon racks, holding every manner of killing device known to man: swords, from gilded longswords to greatswords longer than rowing oars; spears, pikes, and halberds, all honed to provide a lethal overdose of iron into any unfortunate on the receiving end; maces and axes, heavy enough to smash through helmets and sharp enough to tear plate mail like paper, all hung alongside shields of all shapes and colors. At regular intervals stood frames holding massive suits of plate armor, all functional and ready to be donned at a moment's notice. At the end of the hall, upon a raised dais, sat a stark, rough-hewn granite seat, with a cushion of midnight blue samite (the only cushion in the entire hall) and behind hung a massive greatsword, fully as long as a man's height, runes glowing faintly along the flat of the silver blade. This was Northrazor, the ancestral weapon of the van Drachendorf house, and symbol of Artur's authority in Drachengard.

The loud steps of Artur's boots on the polished stone floor silenced all activity as servant and noble alike sttod and bowed low towards the duke, making his way across to the ducal seat. With a single hand he lifted Northrazor from its wall slats and held it briefly. It was light, almost weightless for such a massive blade, and gently thrummed with the tamed magic glowing from the ancient runes, keeping the blade sharper than any surgeon's scalpel. Looking down, he picked up the cushion from the seat of the chair, and tossed it aside. The chambermaids always forgot to leave the Storm Throne bare- the duke hated any sign of weakness near the literal seat of his power. Artur sat, cradling the hilt in his right hand, leaning the blade against the seat's armrest in the traditional manner of holding court. A serving maid carried forth a table of polished ebony and set it beside the chair, laying a platter of bread, bacon and roasted fish, with a pewter cup of frostapple juice.

A thunderous basso voice boomed out, filling the hall from the floor to the very peaks of the vaults, "Hail, Artur van Drachendorf, son of Eddard, Duke of Drachengard, Lord of Sturmsberg and Count of Marienbard!" All assembled murmured "Hail!" and Artur raised his hand in recognition of their fealty.

"Sit, all of you." Artur nodded to the knight who heralded his entrance. "Sir Baelric, begin."

Sir Baelric the Black Bull would have been freakishly huge were he an ox. As a man, he was monstrous. Towering well over seven feet tall and wider than most doors, the Seneschal of Sturmsberg was clad in black brigandine and sable, the salt-and-pepper of his beard offering the only variance of color. He seemed to all a massive shadow looming over the hall, yet somehow diminished next to the still, chilly demeanor of his liege seated next to him. Sir Baelric spoke up again, his vowels rolling like the timbre of a war-drum. "Emissary Lorenzo della Trema is first, on behalf of the King in Porta Rialto. Step forth, Emissary, and address His Grace."

The royal Tecterian envoy made an effort to stride forward confidently, yet the unfriendly stares of the hard-bitten knights and lords, the wicked draft blowing in despite the fires, and his own woefully inappropriate attire caused him to stumble slightly, making his stride more of a prancing gait. His brilliantly multicolored silk doublet fluttered in the draft, and the southerner shivered before sweeping off his hat and bowing low to the young duke. His warbling voice, clipped with the accent of the south, could not have been more different from the rumbling thunder of the Black Bull's. "Your Grace, I bring you fond greetings in the name of Our King Bellarmino and Our Queen Estella. We know that Drachengard's fealty to Tecteria and the Crown is still strong and-" he gave a shiver as a swift, vengeful sea wind whistled through the hall from the great double doors, tearing the emissary's ridiculous hat from his hand and casting it at Artur's feet.

Artur paid the hat no attention. His expressionless blue eyes bored into della Trema as he addressed the blushing, shivering envoy. "You are unused to the North." It was a statement, coldly thought and coldly given. Before the emissary could reply, the duke nodded to a figure behind della Trema. A knight dutifully stepped forward, unclasping his heavy bearskin cloak, and hefted it into the southerner's quaking shoulders, with a "reassuring" clap to the back that sent the envoy nearly pitching unto his face. Artur said nothing, sitting stock still as the court broke into low laughter as the beet-red Tecterian struggled to stand straight under the heavy black garment, fighting to save face. With a casual flick of the duke's fingers, the entire assembly quieted. "Now," Artur said, "I send my greetings to the King and Queen. What would they ask of Drachengard?"

della Trema stood tall, as tall as he could with the bear cloak weighing him down of course. He sang out, his warbling tenor rippling through the hall, "Your Grace, the Crown commands that you prepare _all_ your levies for the defense of the realm!" At "defense," his right hand flew up in a dramatic flourish that spoke of exhaustive training in court etiquette and theatrics. "The elven cities have unleashed their hoplites and now land in the thousands on our Sapphire Shore! Even now, O Grace, the elven archons Ophidros and Zeuxis threaten the Jeweled Bay, mere miles from the Rialto! Our Montessan and Vicianese allies are hard-pressed already, their gallantry spilled daily on the seas and fields! The South needs the fury of the North to drive the Bronze Foe back to the miserable rocks whence they came! The Crown and the people call for help, Your Grace! Will you not answer the summons of the King, as brave sons of Tecteria? _Will you not lend your strength to ours for victory?_"

It was a very fine speech, full of the histrionics and posturing that would have won fervent applause in the warmer, sultry sun of the South. But silence reigned in the Hall of St. Rolande, and della Trema, glanced about, nervously. His eyes met Artur's, but could only stand the penetrating azure stare for a second before casting down.

"Commands," Artur said, letting the word linger in the winter air. Even the crows outside quieted. "The king _commands _me to rally my troops to march south." A dark murmur spread through the northern lords, with much head-shaking and muttering.

The envoy stroked his meticulous goatee nervously. "Ah... yes, my lord duke... He... The King calls upon your feudal obligation-" he froze, color leaching quickly from his face as Artur's eyebrow arched ever so slightly, the first movement on that young, frigid face.

"Obligation." More muttering. Artur's eyes betrayed nothing: just a blaze of blue- colder than a glacier's heart. Sir Baelric scoffed, his derisive laugh rumbling.

"The king in the South speaks of obligation, of feudal duties! Hah! Never in three hundred years has Tecteria sent any sort of aid to the North in our war against the Thyrmlings! And time after time, we have dutifully given aid towards whatever fool venture you southerners embark upon. Now he presumes to demand _all_ our strength, -during the winter, no less!- to march south, leaving our homes and lands defenseless? Drachengard is not some strange land where men sow babes in spring and reap soldiers during the harvest, envoy! Every year we field fewer men against the Thrymling horde, and the king with his perfumes in his flowery palace asks for more! We are bound to answer your king's summons, yea, but your king is bound to assist his vassals! I applaud you and your speechcraft my lord emissary. It was grandly said, and therein lies its fault. _We have not the time to perfect our theatrics and turns of phrase- only time enough to prepare for the next invasion, and only time enough to push those pagan beasts back into the sea._ The South knows nothing of the North's plight, else she would not ask what your king asks today." The Black Bull crossed his huge arms as knights and lords shouted agreement and pounded on the tables in applause.

The envoy's face flushed again, this time in anger as he pointed to Baelric. "You lie, sir! Every year, His Majesty sends hundreds of condottieri, the finest sellswords and mercenary companies, all with flawless records and the highest recommendations!"

A knight shouted from the crowd, "Aye, 'n all o' them die from the snows 'afore they even meet a Thrymlin' axe! Ye send us cowards 'n brigands, nothin' but gangs o' thievin', rapin' crim'nals! Or maybe they are ye best, the cream o' the south's crop? Izzat why ye're havin' such trouble from the knife-ears, then?" Laughter and agreement rang about as della Trema drew himself up indignantly.

"Your Grace," della Trema began, his voice finding its stride once again, "you are bound by feudal law to answer the summons! I promise you that when the North has joined the fight against the elves, His Majesty will send a hundred thousand soldiers to aid the north and crush the Thrymlings for all time!"

Artur stood, his eyes never straying from della Trema's. For a full minute no one spoke while the emissary tried and failed to match the unearthly blue stare. The crows cackled in the distance. "Emissary. What do the elves do to their captives, the high and low-born that they seize in battle?"

The envoy gulped, mopping his brow. "They..they hold them for exorbitant ransoms, Your Grace... Archon Zeuxis demands _four million_ gold saluds for Castellano Carlo Bellovese, who was captured at Mortacchio a week ago..."

Artur strode down from the dais, stopping mere feet away from the envoy, eyes fully locked unto della Trema's. His voice, though soft, carried with it a frost that caused the emissary to shiver even under the heavy bearskin. "And if they don't pay, emissary? If four million gold saluds is too high a price?"

della Trema withered under the unrelenting stare. "Then...Then he is held...held until the r-ransom is p-paid, Your-Your Grace..." He saw the corner of Artur's mouth tweak upwards in a terrifying smirk, and staring into the blue, he saw a cascade of bitterness, anguish, pain, and icy fury.

Artur gently grasped the front of della Trema's doublet and pulled him forward, close enough to kiss. His breath blew cold in the envoy's face, smelling of ice and glacier. His voice was terribly soft, softer than the snowfall, and a thousand times as deadly. "When the Thrymlings sack a town... they impale the old men and women on stakes and leave them to rot... You can hear their screaming on the wind for miles... They dash the children and infants against the rocks and cliffs. The maidens are bound to poles, and every single warrior goes down the line, having their way with each and every one of them while their fathers and sons hang from gallows, the last image in their minds being their mothers and daughters being raped over and over. They cut apart our priests, branding foul symbols into their flesh, and hang the pieces from the tree branches for their savage gods."

Artur paused, eyes shining strangely, breath coming in ragged gasps. "They took my father..." he snarled, "gutted him like a boar as he hung upside down over their altar. They took my mother and my sister... The chieftains take noblewomen, to breed their sons and serve them hand and foot. And you ask me to send my men, all of whom has lost loved ones to these animals, to aid your king in some petty war so that he can keep his gold? I have learned my history: you fight the broken remnants of an empire dead for ten thousand years, and you can barely win besides. I fight to keep this entire realm safe from the fate that every village in the North has suffered and will suffer every winter, _and you command me to empty my castles to save your king a few ransoms? _Your king and the elves play at war, never knowing what true war, what true slaughter is. Fine." Artur's mouth curled into a sneer, ice-white teeth clenched together like a dragon's maw. "Your king is within his rights to demand my troops. How many does His Majesty demand?"

The envoy, pale as linen, stammered, "H-His Majesty commands-i mean- _requests _a minimum of twenty thousand men to-" he winced at the shouts of outrage and from the crowd of lords. Artur raised his hand to silence his vassals, and nodded.

Artur nodded to Baelric, voice ringing out for all to hear. "Senechal, how many men can Sturmsberg and Marienbard muster?" the huge lord snorted, eyes narrowed in scorn for the emissary.

"Sturmsberg and Marienbard can muster no more than six hundred men to Porta Rialto's defense, Your Grace," the Black Bull boomed, ending in a snort of disgust.

Artur addressed a tall, saturnine man with a hawkish nose and rust-colored hair and beard, clad in red-enameled scale mail and twirling a longsword like a spin-top. "How many men can Fireglen summon, Count Rodolfo? You are Tecterian; how many swords is the war in the South worth against the one here?"

Rodolfo di'Mezzini bowed. "Four hundred and sixty men, as _Fortuna _decides," he said, grinning mockingly at della Trema.

Artur turned to a tall woman in full plate mail, beautiful brunette hair tied in a single large braid. "And how many can the van Esterbergs contribute, Countess Alfstanna?"

The Lioness of Schaltzheim tossed her head proudly, braid swaying majestically. "Two hundred men stand ready, Your Grace. No more."

Finally, Artur faced a man leaning against a suit of armor, hooded and masked. Dead grey eyes stared from the masked darkness as he shouldered his longbow of pitch-black yew. "Barrows," Artur called, "how many of your rangers would be willing to march south?"

Barrows pulled down the black cloth covering his mouth, revealing a scrubby black beard with a wicked smile full of golden teeth. "Twenty five bows, Y'Grace."

Other knights and lords called out their predicted levies, each smaller and more insulting than the last. One particularly drunken knight asked the envoy if his manhood counted as an extra man, on account of its alleged size. Artur turned back to the emissary, scorn glinting in his eyes. "I am no savant with numbers, but I believe that comes to less than five thousand, all told."

della Trema had by now recovered his bluster, and glared at Artur, "that is not nearly enough men, Your Grace, and you know it! These are insults by your vassals! Insults to the King, and to all of Tecteria! I demand that you send more men!"

He would have gone farther, but he suddenly found Northrazor quarter-inches away from his adam's apple. His eyes widened in shock, but Artur had turned to face his knights. "My vassals! My lords of the North, who have fought and bled for my family and for Bahamut our protector! If you will send so few men to the aid of Tecteria, how many would you send if I were to answer King Bellarmino's insult myself, by marching on Porta Rialto? How many would join me then? Answer me!"

Barrows the Ranger grinned again. "Fer ye, m'laird. I'd say about... _five hundred_ at least."

Alfstanna van Esterberg, the Lioness, held her head high. "Schaltzheim would send eight hundred knights, with two _ithousand/i_ infantry to protect Your Grace," she proclaimed, smiling proudly.

Count Rodolfo di'Mezzini looked up, solemn and sure. "For my duke and my liege lord, I would pledge all six hundred of my knights, and all four thousand of my men-at-arms to march on Porta Rialto!"

Baelric the Black Bull raised his huge hand, his voice roaring to the heavens. "And for you, Your Grace, Sturmsberg and Marienbard will _each_ give _a thousand knights, and ten thousand troops_, to press your rights to the south!"

More and more lords took up the call, swearing far more men to Artur than their pledges to the emissary. della Trema sputtered, backing away from Northrazor's wicked edge. "T-Treachery! You would dare raise an army against your King? This is war!"

Artur wheeled around and returned to his seat, head tilted slightly in boredom and his eyes narrowed in disdain. "I have made no such declaration, nor will I ever. To raise arms against my overlord would dishonor my name and the entire North. My lords have only displayed their loyalty to me, and their scorn for your king. Go back to Bellarmino, and remind him that even kings cannot borrow forever, be it gold or men. Now, if there is nothing-"

The doors to the Hall burst open, thudding against the stone walls. A few spears were shaken from their racks and fell with a clatter. In the doorway stood an outrider, a soldier assigned to patrol the coast for signs of Thyrmling raider fleets. His chainmail hauberk was spattered with mud and blood, arrows sticking out all over, yet he was unharmed. He was helping along a slumped, shuffling figure, so swaddled with a thick cloak that it was impossible to discern. The two shuffled forward to the ducal throne as quickly as they could, paying the horrified emissary no mind as they both wearily knelt before Artur.

The outrider raised his head, his face and beard caked with dust and grime. "I am Outrider Merovech of Fireglen, Your Grace. I was patrolling the coast when I came upon this merchant," he said, pulling back the cloak to reveal a fat, terrified man covered in dirt and soot, his tunic torn and rumpled. The fat man was shivering, but it was obvious not from the cold. His eyes were too wide, too paralyzed by terror. Merovech spoke again, motioning to the merchant. "He is Rollo, of Cloud's Rest. He had been running for days."

Artur stood, and strode quickly down to meet the two. He laid his hands on Rollo's quivering, round shoulders, looking deeply into the fat man's pudgy, terrified face. "Speak, Goodman Rollo... You are safe here. You will rest in my chamber, but tell me what has frightened you so."

Rollo's eyes brimmed with tears, and the man collapsed into Artur's arms, sobbing like a great fat child. Artur froze in shock as the merchant clung desperately, snot and tears dribbling unto the younger man's tunic and cloak. The fat looked up, eyes red and runny. "Your...Your Grace... It's...It's horrible, horrible! My-My home...My f-family...Oh my family, my-my d-daughter, my w-w-wife... oh mercy-mercy, oh..." He dissolved into mad sobs, clutching Artur like some long-lost son, arms tight around Artur's slender frame.

The young duke was speechless, his eyes betraying utter confusion. He saw Baelric make for the merchant, to pry the hysterical man off of his lord. Artur shook his head, and gently brought Rollo back to arm's length. His azure eyes captured the merchant's muddy brown ones, and the sobs ceased. "Calm yourself. Where do you hail? What has happened?"

The older man gulped, fighting for breath. Tears still leaked down his great fat cheeks, down his chins. "I-I-I hail from P-Pykeharbor, Y-Your Gra-Grace, on the-the far end of the-of the coast... The horror, m'lord..the...hor-horror! They came in from the sea... hundreds, no, _thousands _of ships! Fire, Fire burning...steel...the screaming... M'lord..." he grasped Artur's tunic front, his eyes blazing madly as he gasped out his last words.

"_They're here."_ And with that, Rollo fainted dead away. Outside, the crows began to caw, like Death's handmaidens cackling over the harvest soon to come.


End file.
